The Huntress: A Novel (Dark Queen)

by Susan Carroll

  The boy laughed. “I have many of those, sir, or should I say monsieur. Unfortunately, I am not in the market for any more admiration. My current patron is a most jealous—”

  He broke off as Gautier stepped out of the shadows. Naismith went white with recognition. He made a frantic effort to bolt inside his room and close the door. Gautier was too fast, too strong for him.

  Ramming his shoulder against the door, he forced his way inside. Before Naismith could draw out his dirk, Gautier had him pinned to the wall, his blade at the boy’s throat.

  A flare of lightning illuminated the young actor’s wide, terrified eyes. “W-who are you? What do you want? If you are after my purse, y-you will find little in it besides a few pennies—”

  “I am sure you know quite well who I am and what I am after,” Gautier interrupted silkily. “And it is not your money. I am seeking the Silver Rose.”

  “I—I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  Gautier lovingly stroked the blade of his knife along that slender white throat. “Our acquaintance would proceed much more amicably if you did not lie to me.”

  “I am not. I—” Naismith gasped as Gautier pressed the blade just hard enough to draw a thin trickle of blood.

  “When I said I admired your performance, I was not talking about the one I saw the other day at the Crown Theatre. I was far more impressed by the role you played that other night. Atop the cliffs.”

  Naismith’s trembling lips moved in a feeble attempt at more denial, but all that escaped him was a frightened moan.

  Gautier shoved up Naismith’s wet sleeve. Even in the semidarkness, the brand of the rose blazed an angry red against his pale skin.

  “That is the danger of dancing in the moonlight with witches, little man.” Gautier’s teeth flashed in a feral smile. “Even a clever boy like you is apt to get burned.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  THE RAINSTORM CONTINUED UNABATED, BUT THE RED HART where Cat and Martin had found refuge was warm and dry. Martin had secured them a room at the back of the inn. It was a modest bedchamber, but far cleaner and more comfortable than the one Cat had occupied when she had first arrived in London. As she peeled off her sodden cloak, her red hair streamed about her face in damp rivulets.

  She slicked her hair back and hung her cloak over the back of a chair near Martin’s discarded doublet. He had already stripped down to his shirt and breeches. After tossing another log on the fire, he padded over to the window in his bare feet.

  He cupped his hands about his eyes and strained to peer into the darkness. “I believe we have eluded any pursuit, but it will be as well to lie low for a while, at least until the storm passes.”

  The deluge had dispelled the usual warmth of August, bringing a chill to the air. Cat rubbed her arms, a shiver coursing through her.

  “We are likely to be trapped here for a few more hours at least. You ought to take off your wet shoes and hose, try to get as dry and comfortable as you can.” Martin pulled a face as his eyes skimmed over her attire. “I notice you are back in my breeches again.”

  “I do seem to have trouble keeping out of them,” Cat replied with a mischievous smile. “Although they are miserably damp at the moment.”

  “Why don’t you take them off?” Martin suggested, his teeth flashing in a wicked grin. “I would not want you to catch your death, petite chatte.”

  Cat shook her head and gave a wry laugh. Their recent adventure had shattered the reserve between her and Martin, restoring their familiar pattern of teasing and bickering. The narrow escape had filled them both with a sense of exhilaration, perhaps dangerously so, Cat thought.

  Folding her arms demurely across her bosom, Cat said, “Much as I appreciate you engaging this room, building up that fine blazing fire, I suspect all this solicitude has more to do with preserving that blasted painting than ensuring my good health.”

  Although Martin made an indignant disclaimer, he strode to the small pine table where he had unrolled the canvas and laid it out carefully.

  “Do you think it sustained any damage?” he asked anxiously.

  Joining him, Cat shook her head. She was still unable to understand why Martin had been so desperate to acquire the painting. It was merely a depiction of six English gentlemen decked out in all their finery. The man positioned at the center of the group was young and handsome enough, but Cat thought his expression made him look rather like a dream-ridden sheep. There was nothing in the least remarkable about the portrait except perhaps for the Latin inscription.

  “Hi mihi sunt Comites, quos ipsa Pericula ducunt,” Cat intoned.

  “You read Latin?” Martin asked eagerly. “What does it mean?”

  Cat thought a moment and then translated roughly, “These men are my companions, whom very dangers draw.”

  The motto meant nothing to her, but it appeared to have significance to Martin because he muttered under his breath. “Could Babington possibly be any more of a fool?”

  “Who is Babington? What dangers? What is so valuable about this painting?” Cat demanded. “Who are these six peacocks?”

  “Dead men. Or they soon will be.” Martin’s satisfaction in having successfully stolen the portrait appeared to fade. He gave Cat a grim look. “Mon Dieu, you have no idea how much I wish you hadn’t followed me tonight. The last thing I wanted was to drag you into this wretched affair. I am sorry.”

  But Cat waved his apology aside with an impatient gesture. “It was my own choice to track you down. But I would like to know exactly what I am now involved in.”

  “You aren’t going to like it.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  He was prevented from answering when one of the logs shifted on the fire, threatening to roll off the hearth in a shower of sparks. Cat suspected Martin’s assiduity in attending to it stemmed as much from a wish to evade her questions as from preventing the room from catching fire.

  Jabbing the log back into place with the poker, Martin kept his back to her. Cat followed him to the hearth, her wet shoes squelching. She sank down on a low stool to remove them and her hose. Her cloak had done a fair job of protecting her shirt, but the breeches bagged about her knees and clung to her calves in a fashion that was wet and miserable.

  After a moment’s hesitation, she stood and loosened the belt that held her dagger. Bracing against the wall, she started to shuck off the breeches. That at least gained Martin’s full attention.

  His eyes widening, he exclaimed, “Cat, what are you doing?”

  “Taking your advice.”

  “I was only jesting.” He beat a hasty retreat and made a great show of staring fixedly out the window.

  Cat paused in her struggles with the damp fabric long enough to reach out and poke him between the shoulder blades. “There is no need for you to play the gentleman. We both know I am not afflicted with maidenly modesty. Besides, you’ll only strain your eyes trying to catch my reflection in the windowpane.”

  “I’d never,” Martin protested, but he came about with a sheepish look. He made no further pretense of averting his gaze as she worked off the breeches.

  Martin’s shirt came well below her knees, but she must have afforded him a generous glimpse for he said admiringly, “You have a lovely pair of legs.”

  “Thank you. They are a trifle on the short side, but they get me where I need to go.” She glanced up at him. Although she smiled, her gaze was piercing and direct. “Enough stalling, le Loup. You are involved in some manner of trouble. You have been ever since I arrived in London. What is going on? I want the truth. I believe I have earned it.”

  “You have and so much more I can never repay.” But Martin still felt reluctant to commence a tale that he knew could only earn her contempt for his recklessness, folly, and duplicity. It had been so sweet tonight having Cat laugh and spar with him in the old familiar way. He was reluctant to see it end. She had seemed so much like his Cat again.

  His Cat? Martin brought himself up short. It was
a jarring thought for someone who had been attempting to court another lady and a false notion as well. Catriona O’Hanlon was not the sort of woman who would ever belong to any man.

  Leaning against the wall, he launched into his explanation. “I suppose it all began about nine months ago, the afternoon our acting company performed in the courtyard of an inn outside of Norwich. By pure chance Sir Francis Walsingham had stopped there during his travels to rest his horses. Walsingham is a member of the privy council and the principal sec—”

  “I know who Sir Francis is and what he does,” Cat interrupted. “The queen’s spymaster is well-known even in the farthest reaches of Ireland. What has that devil to do with you?”

  “I work for him.”

  Doing his best to ignore her stunned expression, Martin went on. “Despite the fact that I was attired in the motley of jester for that afternoon’s performance, my English flawless, Walsingham recognized me. He remembered me as the Martin le Loup who once traveled with the deputation from the king of Navarre. We were sent to secure badly needed funds for the kingdom’s defense against the duc de Guise’s Catholic forces.

  “I played little part in those negotiations. I was here more as Navarre’s eyes and ears, to gauge the mood of the queen’s council members, to judge if there might be a possibility of English military support. A small role, but Sir Francis took note of me. That’s what he does and he never forgets.”

  “The man does have a sinister reputation.” Cat hung the breeches to dry on a nail that protruded from the mantel. “Is Walsingham truly as black-hearted as I have heard?”

  “No, he is a man of deep faith and conviction. But he also possesses an astonishingly subtle and devious mind. I suppose one could best describe him as a religious Machiavelli.”

  “Sweet Mother Earth! I can scarce imagine a more dangerous combination. So what happened when he recognized you?” Cat demanded. “I suppose the man wanted to know what the devil you were doing, wandering through the countryside, passing yourself off as an English actor.”

  “He did, indeed. I tried to fob him off with some tale of having fled France to escape creditors. I don’t know if he believed me. One never does with Walsingham.

  “He could have had me arrested merely for entering the country without the proper papers, let alone on the suspicion I might be a French spy. Instead he offered me employment.”

  “You mean forced you into his service.”

  Martin wished he could allow her to believe that, but he shook his head. “There was little force involved. Walsingham did apply some pressure, hinting that Meg and I could be deported back to France. But I could have snatched Meg up and fled, tried starting over again in some other country, perhaps even your Ireland. But Walsingham dangled before me the chance of advancement, the prospect of obtaining a future for my daughter beyond my wildest dreams. And I took it, never pausing to weigh the risks or count the costs.”

  Cat said nothing, but her expression was grave as she listened. She sank down upon the stool in one of those unladylike postures that was so typical of Cat. Her legs sprawled slightly apart, her elbows resting upon her knees. His shirt dangled between her thighs in a provocative fashion that roused Martin in spite of himself.

  He focused his attention on the bricks of the fireplace as he told her everything, holding nothing back this time. He spoke in a flat tone with none of his usual flourishes, relating the details of the Babington conspiracy, all the subterfuge Martin had resorted to in order to gain evidence for Walsingham, including being obliged to spy upon Ned Lambert. He concluded with his raid upon Poley’s house and his reason for confiscating the portrait.

  “…and there they are, Babington and his fellow conspirators depicted in all their fools’ glory.” Martin gestured to the portrait. “Their death warrant signed in a rainbow of oil colors. But when I hand the painting over to Walsingham, at least one neck will be saved. This surely must exonerate Jane’s brother.”

  Cat gave a faint nod of agreement. She stretched out her legs, her eyes downcast as she regarded her bare toes. Between her continued silence and the relentless drum of the rain against the window, Martin’s nerves felt strained to the snapping point.

  “You might as well say what you are thinking. You have never spared me before. Go ahead. Tell me what an irresponsible knave and idiot I am.”

  “Very well. You’re an idiot.”

  Martin winced. He’d expected her to agree. But did she have to oblige him quite so cheerfully?

  “I have always known exactly who you are, Martin le Loup,” she said with a small quirk of her lips. “A bit of a rogue, a bit of a scoundrel, and an idiot. A brave, reckless, noble idiot.”

  Instead of the scorn he’d anticipated, Cat regarded him with a strange softness in her eyes.

  “Noble?” he echoed. “Woman, have you even been listening to me for the past fifteen minutes? The things that I have done—”

  “Were extremely dangerous,” she interrupted. “And while I cannot approve of you taking such risks, you are about to bring a parcel of scheming rascals to justice.”

  “To torture and death, you mean. And one of those rascals, Ballard, is a priest.” Martin turned away from her, staring out the window where the sky continued to bleed dark rivers of rain down the glass. “The Lord knows I am not a religious man, but the years of my youth that I spent among the prelates of Notre Dame gave even me a certain respect for those who take holy orders.”

  He added bleakly, “I am not sure what transgressions are enough to send a man to hell, but betraying a priest must surely be a black enough sin.”

  Cat crept up behind him and rested her hand on his shoulder. “In my opinion, this John Ballard relinquished any claims to holiness when he planned to become an assassin. I don’t claim to understand the ways of the Catholics or the Protestants. But from what I know of your Christ, he advocated love, peace, and forgiveness, not murder.”

  Cat tugged at his arm, coaxing him to face her. “None of the motives of these conspirators strike me as being all that noble or pure.”

  “Have my own been any better?” Martin asked. “When I worked as an agent for Navarre, most of my work involved scouting the duc de Guise’s army or trying to raise support for a small beleaguered kingdom. At least there was some fairness, some honor in that. But this sordid affair—engaging to spy and deceive, encouraging other men in their treason in order to trap them.” Martin dragged his hand wearily over the ends of his beard. “And all for what? To obtain a fake coat of arms and a parcel of land.”

  “You sought a safe haven for your daughter. You weren’t planning to assassinate a queen.”

  “No, I’m only helping Walsingham bring another to her ruin and death.”

  “Mary Stuart did a fair job of accomplishing that by herself.” Cat stroked her hand down his cheek in one of those gentle gestures that was rare from her and all the more sweet for that. “I have no love for Elizabeth, but there is no courage in the strike of an assassin’s knife. The only way I would ever agree to fight the Tudor woman is if I could look her straight in the eye, my sword against hers.”

  “That is because there are very few women like you. Or men either for that matter.”

  “Like me?” She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “And just what kind of person would that be?”

  “One of honor, wisdom, and courage. Like your Red Branch knights, your Grania and Brian Boru, all those generations of Irish heroes you celebrate in your stories. It is their blood that courses through your veins.”

  Cat smiled sadly and shook her head. “I think that blood has become a bit thinned during my wanderings.”

  “No.” Martin traced his fingertip over the arch of her brows, her eyes such clear, pure lakes of blue. “Even exiled from your country, you carry Ireland in your eyes, all its strength and wild beauty.”

  “Ah, don’t be daft,” she said, but she blushed in a way she would never have done if he had heaped upon her the sort of flowery compliments he us
ually reserved for women.

  Cat was such a practical woman, gifted with a direct wisdom. She saw things much more clearly than he. He felt as though with a clean stroke of her knife, she had cut through all the guilt, all the conflicts of conscience that had been tormenting him.

  He didn’t deserve the comfort she offered, but he could not stop himself from reaching for it all the same. He stole his arms about her waist, drawing her closer.

  Cat came to him without hesitation, burrowing her face against the hard warmth of his chest. Martin rested his chin atop her head, her hair still damp. He breathed in the aroma that was Cat’s alone. No cloying perfume, but something that was earthier, more elemental, sweet rain and fresh summer wind.

  He held her thus for what seemed a long time, no sounds except the drumming of the rain, the crackle of the fire, and the steady thud of their hearts.

  There was something tender about Martin’s embrace and Cat tried to not hunger for more. She was grateful to be able to hide her face against him, lest he read her folly in her eyes. How deeply she had fallen in love with him, how shaken she was to realize the dangerous risks he had been taking. The thought of Martin being killed, of losing him, sent a small tremor through her.

  He could never be her man. They would part ways in a few months’ time, likely to never see each other again. Hard and painful as that was, Cat was certain she would be able to endure. Just as long as she knew he remained alive, somewhere out there striding his way through the world after Martin’s own inimitable fashion.

  Cat tipped her head to gaze up at him. “When you give Walsingham that painting, you’ll be shed of him. Your part in all this will be ended, won’t it?”

  “I believe so. But if anything should still go awry, if something were to happen to me, you’d look out for Meg.” It was not a question on Martin’s part, merely a statement from which he appeared to derive great comfort.

  “You know I would,” Cat assured him. “But nothing is going to happen to you.”